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Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Ordinarily, each Tuesday a blog written by or
about the Dalai Lama is posted here. However, due to the new release of the
second edition of my novel Notes from
Nadir, I've decided to include a somewhat relevant excerpt from it. The chapter
has also been edited to keep it under 1,200 words.

Chapter
40 ~ Dr. Rinpoche

At the Buddhist center, a Tibetan doctor was doing a lecture on Tibetan medicine and offering
consultations to anyone who called in advance and made an appointment. I'd
attended a two-day seminar in Santa Monica a few years ago and found it highly
educational. I learned it was a based on Ayurvedic medicine, along with Greek,
Chinese and even Persian systems. It was all about balance—if one aspect of the
body was off kilter, it affected everything else. My Mom was clearly off
balance and she wouldn't deny that fact and agreed to see the doctor. I'd pay
for her to see the Tibetan doctor as the fee of $25 was far less expensive than
even a Medicare office visit.

I saw the young monk who was wearing his
burgundy and gold robes and he smiled when he saw me and especially when he saw
Mom. He first bowed to her and then reached over and shook her hand, the
kindness emanating from his whole being. Tibetans, especially Tibetan Buddhist
monks, highly revered mothers and older people and Mom was in both categories.
"Hello, Hello!" he said, and I watched Mom beam at the monk.

After he was out of earshot, Mom asked,
"Is that the doctor?"

I nodded. "I think so. I haven't met him
before. I know the translator is over there," I pointed to a chubby older
man wearing jeans and a burgundy T-shirt with a "Free Tibet" logo on
it. Mom smiled and then noticed a couple of white guys entering the room, both
with long hair and beards. They were brothers whose names I didn't remember but
I knew they'd been to India for a month and did a slide show presentation on
it. Both men came over to Mom and greeted her.

We went into the shrine room, a small-carpeted
room with a large brass statue of Buddha. The plywood walls were covered with
colorful tapestries of various Buddhas, some male, and some female. There were
bookshelves filled with holy texts and candle and water bowl offerings on a
ledge beneath the fabric-wrapped texts. The energy emanating from the room was
intense and usually people spoke in lower voices when they were in the room.
But a few times some Nadirian would pipe up in above normal tones and once I
heard someone loudly telling a bawdy story using words that weren't allowed on
most commercial TV stations. But, the Buddhas understood people and their
weaknesses and strengths.

There was a medley of colored and patterned
cushions arranged in rows on the floor for the regular students who preferred
to sit either cross-legged or kneel on them. For the older people or newcomers,
folding chairs lined two walls. The Doctor would be doing his seminar like the
one in Santa Monica, and that began with about two minutes of chanting in
Tibetan, which puzzled Mom, and she stared at the handout for a minute and then
looked around at the chanters.

The Doctor spoke about the three humors:
phlegm, bile and wind and about five minutes into the lecture Mom fell asleep.
Her interest in medicine went as far as mine did in sewing: that bored me as
much. It also required more patience as the Doctor's English was fairly good
but sometimes he'd lapse into Tibetan and the translator would interpret for
us.

When she woke up about an hour later, better
rested, she decided to go outside and sit down in order to get some fresh air.
I understood that the incense might be affecting her as it wasn't a smell she
was accustomed to – it was rather heavy on sandalwood, juniper and other
Himalayan herbs.

Mom had the first appointment after the
lecture according to a piece of paper with all four appointments listed by time
and the patient's name and phone number. The smiling Doctor Rinpoche invited
both of us back into his office. It was so unlike anything Mom had ever been
in, no examining table, and no white coated doctor wearing a name badge. In
fact, the bedroom was just that and it was decorated in Tibetan Buddhist Motif.
Doctor Rinpoche was wearing his standard robes and genially indicated that my
mother should sit on the wooden chair in front of the twin-sized mattress on
the floor.
Doctor Rinpoche would examine Mom right in
front of me. "I hope my hands aren't cold!" he laughed, rubbing them
together to make sure they weren't. He reached over and gently touched Mom's
left wrist.

So I sat there on the bed next to the doc and
watched. It felt peculiar, so after a minute I got up and sat on the floor
leaning against the other bed.

She mentioned being tired and dizzy. He
nodded. I could see the connection between them—he was entirely focused on her.

"I do not get anything…" the doctor
said, frowning slightly. He let go of her left wrist and reached for her right
one. There was a smile as though a musician had found an instrument that was
more finely tuned.

Mom rattled off her list of illnesses and
surgeries, and as she said, "gallbladder operation, and I only have one kidney" the
look of concern and distress on the monk-doctor's face was the essence of a
caring and compassionate doctor. With each disease mentioned, he flinched.

He looked into her eyes, and checked her
tongue. After that, he had his diagnosis; he didn't say what was wrong in
western terms. During the time she was either sleeping or outdoors admiring the
tomato bushes and flowers, he had talked about imbalances of the system. He
told her she had lung, a severe wind imbalance. She would need some pills, but
he was out of medicine until next month when it would be mailed from India.

Doctor Rinpoche smiled at Mom and held both of
her hands for a minute as he comforted her. He was so radiant looking and Mom
seemed happier in his care. The term doctor's care meant so much by looking at
that tableau.

"We will call you when the medicine comes
in," Doctor Rinpoche said. And I knew he meant it.

We all shook hands and I gave him the cash. No
insurance forms to fill out, no credit cards, no fuss.

When we were in the car, Mom told me that he
didn't tell her very much.

"That's not how they do it." I told
her. "Just hope the medicine gets here soon."

"You believe in this stuff I don't,
Lisa." She paused as I made a left turn onto a busier street. "But he
has the best bedside manner of any doctor I've ever met."

"Yeah, especially since he was on
it!" I couldn't help commenting.

We both laughed.

Notes from Nadir is available online in both
eBook and paperback formats. Here's a brief description:

A Los Angeles-based writer returns
to her Midwestern home due to financial difficulties. Moving back in with Mom,
she is confronted with long forgotten memories, finding it difficult to adjust
to life in Nadir.